Good Time(20)

Best night ever.

I need to hold onto those memories because when he wakes up he’s going to kill me. And honestly? I can’t face it. Not yet. Not after the way he looked at me last night, like marrying me was the best decision of his life. Last night he made me believe in love at first sight and fairy tales and happily ever afters and forever. Though it could have been the tequila making me believe, if I’m being fair. In any case, I don’t think he’s going to wake up today and ask me to meet his mother. On a scale of one to ten I’d say the likelihood of that happening is a one.

He’s going to wake up and look at me like I’m a drunken mistake. And then demand that we get this dissolved as quickly as possible.

Which I get, I do. I’ve known him a day, it’s not like we’re in love or anything. That would be silly. Not totally unheard of, it does happen. In movies mostly, but sometimes it happens to your friend’s cousin’s next-door neighbor. So it could. But it hasn’t happened here, because only one of us is crazy.

Unless.

Unless he was so blown away with what a good time I am that he decided he best put a ring on it? Doubtful, but possible. I am a real good catch. I have a college degree, and a job. A job with benefits! I wonder if he needs health insurance? I could add him to my health plan at work now that we’re married. Then I’d be a wife with benefits, which is way better than a friend with benefits because he’d get affordable healthcare and sex.

But that’s likely not a selling point, mostly because I’m betting he has health insurance already. He seems like he has his act together, aside from marrying me last night, obviously.

In any case, I can’t face him this morning. I can’t do it. I know I’ll have to do it eventually, but today is not that day. Don’t I deserve just one day? One day to revel in the memories of the best night of my life? One day to pretend whirlwind romances exist?

One day to believe in love.

One day to pretend it exists.

That sounds fair.

Fair-ish.

Fair if we’re grading on a bell curve where one of us gets what they want and the other doesn’t. Wait, is that a bell curve? No, I don’t think I’m using that correctly at all.

I take one last look at him before I get out of bed. He’s on his back, one hand resting on his stomach and the other on my shoulder, because I’m snuggled into the side of him like a needy kitten. He’s wearing a gold band on the third finger of his left hand, the hand resting on his stomach. His perfectly chiseled six-pack of a stomach. He’s got that V thing too—you know those abdominal muscles that make women stupid? He’s got ’em. And they lead directly to the holy grail of penises. My vagina throbs just glancing at it. Literally. Throbbing in denial because all I got penetrated with last night was his tongue and a finger, so I need to get out of this bed right now before I do something stupider than marrying him. Something like waking him up with a demand to ride his cock only to have the moment ruined when he remembers he lost his ever-loving mind last night by marrying a crazy girl.

One more moment of lustful staring will have to do. It’s just, is there anything hotter than a wedding band on the finger of a very sexy man? Like, look at that sexy motherfucker committed to fucking only one woman for the rest of his life. Rawr. Is it just me? It can’t be just me.

And seeing a ring on a man that belongs to you?

Whole new level of hot.

Even if it’s temporary.

Maybe I’ll take a quick picture of it. The sheet is covering his junk so it’s not totally invasive taking his picture while he’s asleep, right? Not more invasive than marrying him while he was drunk.

Or did he marry me while I was drunk?

Hmm?

We were both drinking, we’re both to blame. That’s not even me rationalizing, it’s true. It’s still a mess though. A big ole hot mess. One that I’d prefer to deal with tomorrow, so right now, I need to go. I ease out of his arms and slip out of the bed, tossing a regretful glance back at Vince as I go.

He has nice lips too. I don’t think I’ve given enough credit to those lips because I’ve been sidetracked over his tongue. But his lips. Hmm. Full, soft, good at sucking.

Focus, Payton.

I find my phone and notice that I already have a picture of Vince wearing his wedding ring. I notice it because I’ve made said picture the screensaver on my phone.

At least my drunk self and my sober self are consistent.

Consistently nuts.

Wouldn’t it be great if my drunk self was some kind of secret genius who did difficult things like making sound financial investments instead of easy things like picking a good photo of Vince? Drunk Payton did pick a good photo though, I gotta give her credit for that.

My camera roll is jam-packed with selfies from last night. On Fremont Street. At the chapel. In bed. Some are of Vince alone. Sometimes he’s smiling. Sometimes he’s brooding. Sometimes he has no idea his picture is being taken. But most of them are of us together. Smiling, laughing, me making ridiculous faces while Vince makes a normal face.

Us. I exhale hard. Us is not a thing, Payton.





Chapter Twelve





After collecting my clothing from around the hotel suite I quietly get dressed and then slip out, fuck-me heels dangling from my fingertips and a stuffed shark shoved under my arm until I reach the hallway, easing the suite door closed behind me and slipping the heels onto my feet. Vince won the shark for me last night at the arcade and I have big plans to sleep with it until I’m forty.